Like a heroic spirit descending, Sigdrifa overlapped a fleeting white shadow; her wild grin guttered like a candle on ice, and silence settled absolute.
Every pure-white crystal in the air drew tight, then flocked to her body like winter birds returning to a peak.
The Niflheim once gripped by the Reaper felt seized by an unseen hand; a cool, clarifying downpour poured through every heart, and people felt reborn to the marrow.
“What… is that?!!”
Odin, who had barely cut down Siegfried and that giant, found her stare nailed to the figure in midair, as if a magnet had stolen her eyes.
But the two nearest to Sigdrifa suddenly bore a mountain’s weight; the Reaper still clawed forward on will alone, while Aphelia—of the same source, made to midwife a goddess—choked like the sky sat on her lungs.
Primordial Soil replaced the flesh, and a Crimson Flame swapped out the soul.
Yet beneath it all, the core still belonged to the Valkyrie—Brynhildr’s very Origin.
Entwined since the first thread, now the true body descended; unchanged in essence, Aphelia stood like a failed counterfeit, a glass bauble beside the jewel, fated to vanish when the original’s light arrived.
With the shattering of Niflheim, a hymn fell around Sigdrifa, like frost-bells ringing a sacred dawn.
The Reaper’s heart bled like a cut rose; she burned to rush in and shred the thief wearing Brynhildr’s shape, yet she was only a coffin-keeper, a shadow by the bier.
Even with the white crystals gone, the space where Sigdrifa and Brynhildr overlapped felt world-blessed; each step was wading stone, and the closer you came, the heavier it crushed.
A thought even stabbed the Reaper: if she neared enough to look up into that face, would the world’s weight grind her to ash in a breath?
For a heartbeat, the world shrank to that merging silhouette.
No blinding glare, no trumpet of grandeur.
Under a chant like sacred surf, the two similar figures fused at last; where Sigdrifa hovered, a silver-haired woman in Silvery Armor took her place, a Silver Lance in hand, an artwork poised in air.
The pressure on the two vanished in a blink, yet that lone silhouette was fear enough, a blade laid across the sky’s throat.
“Brynhildr…?”
The name slipped from Aphelia, awe first, breath later.
“Valkyrie… so it was you pulling the strings all along…”
Odin drifted over, calm like steel in snow; that same face, that signature weapon and armor—this was the Valkyrie she knew. She’d suspected before Brynhildr vanished, but she’d never dreamed a trusted comrade would be the hand that burned her homeland.
She held steady, because she’d watched Sigdrifa and Aphelia clash, every spark etched on her eyes.
That Aether colliding like planets, that control and understanding—she, a newcomer to Aether, couldn’t hope to catch up. Power that embodies rules can’t be patched with technique.
“Aphelia, what do we do…?”
Odin edged closer, voice lowered under the hush, as the Valkyrie hung like a cold moon.
“I don’t know…”
How do you answer that kind of question?
If we rush her, does everything get solved?
Don’t kid yourself. Even with the Crimson Fire fused to her soul, even with will ironed flat, Aphelia had only held even with Sigdrifa; without the Reaper, she’d have fallen in a drawn-out grind.
If you had to rank them, Sigdrifa should be Brynhildr’s vassal; if just her borrowed techniques reached that height, then what about Brynhildr herself? Or rather—the complete her?
“Then… we try.”
The words left Aphelia like a coin tossed to fate.
Crimson Fire roared to life behind her; several blades rose and hung at her flanks like hunting falcons. She didn’t dare lunge first; even before a legend, the mind grows a cliff.
The fight resumed.
Aphelia moved faster than ever; twin swords clenched, she flashed to Brynhildr’s side and cut for the throat without a blink.
If you don’t know you can win, at least swing first.
Odin followed on her heels; a thunder lance of cerulean Aether cloaked her advance like rain hides a hunter. Hit or miss, she’d drive that tip where it needed to go.
Watching them surge, the Reaper bit her lip till it bled; she clenched her scythe but held her ground, eyes locked on Brynhildr like nails.
Yet before Aphelia’s blades arrived, pain bloomed in her gut like molten iron; she was whipped away, no time even to flinch.
Almost at the same instant, Odin, riding the cover of cerulean Aether, saw an opening carved for her. She hadn’t stopped the strike that flung Aphelia, but this beat for the return would be enough to carve a wound.
Would it, truly?
In her cerulean right eye, the Silver Lance swelled nearer and nearer; her body stayed in its motion, and the more she fought to pull the thunder lance back, the more it felt like wrestling a river.
“Ahhhhhhh!”
Blood fountained, but Odin didn’t let her lance recoil.
If you’ve been cut, you carve back.
Yet the Silver Lance that had just pierced Odin’s right eye now stood at Brynhildr’s side, a shield in a blink; before Odin even caught the motion, a blow hammered her away. This time Brynhildr didn’t just swat her—her Silver Lance vanished from her hand like a star slipping behind cloud.
“What… is happening?!!!”
Clutching her ruined right eye, Odin stared as a Silver Lance halted a hair’s breadth from her brow; cold fear crawled like frost over bone.
It had been seconds at most; could her strike cross space itself? Then—
“That’s not it…”
The Reaper’s voice brushed her ear like dusk wind. Under the black cloak, several hourglasses cracked at once.
The oncoming Silver Lance stopped dead in midair, as if gripped by an invisible fist; its edges blurred, and in seconds it unraveled like a mirage and vanished before them.
Far off, Brynhildr seemed to sense it; she tilted her chin and opened her eyes, calm as a winter blade.
More hourglasses shattered under the cloak; the Reaper coughed blood, her body jolting as though a bell struck her sternum.
“Hey, you alright?!”
Feeling the jolt behind her, Odin blurted out.
“I’m fine… don’t you move! If the Valkyrie locks you again, I might not catch you a second time!”
The Reaper seized Odin and held her fast, a shadow anchoring a storm-tossed mast.
Seeing Brynhildr not press the attack, Odin kept still and dropped her voice.
“What do you mean? How did she do that? In my memory, she was never this… uncanny.”
A bitter smile creased the Reaper’s mouth; she stared at the white figure and spoke low, like sharing a funeral secret.
“Brynhildr’s strike comes after, yet arrives before… No. No matter when she swings, her blow lands ahead—sometimes several steps ahead. That’s rule-power. You don’t have a chance.”
Always arriving first. If that’s true, what can answer it? Imagine it: no matter when you punch, the other lands theirs first, even before you choose to move.
This isn’t speed. It’s an attack that strips and twists cause and effect.
That’s one of the killing tools the Valkyrie Brynhildr holds.
“Wait, what about Aphelia? You covered me—then she…”
“Rest easy. Brynhildr can’t kill her. At least the one here, absolutely can’t.”
The black robe billowed like a warding screen, blinding Brynhildr’s gaze; the Reaper glanced toward the crater where Aphelia had vanished. For now, hope had to ride with her—at least until the plan took root.
Damn… that hurts.
Aphelia gripped her belly where the blow had landed and sucked a cold breath through her teeth.
Outside, she looked fine, but inside, pain burned like a brazier; organs hurt—or more likely, they were shattered. Worthy of Brynhildr. How hard had she hit?
Half strength? Thirty percent?
Brushing rubble from her shoulders, Aphelia floated up from the crater; Crimson Flame kindled along her forearms, then spread over her body like a red mantle.
If armor alone can’t hold, what if I add the Crimson Fire?
Facing Brynhildr, she didn’t dare relax a sinew; she wrung a hundred and fifty percent from a body built for a hundred. The two girls in ceremonial finery reappeared, scuffed but steady, swords in hand, flanking her as they fixed on the figure in the sky.
Noticing the gaze rising from below, Brynhildr extended her hand; a pale fingertip curled in a taunt, a beckon like a snowflake daring a flame.
